Daemon is used to being stared at, flourishes under the attention. What is the power of blood if it cannot be seen? And if it can be seen, it ought to be admired, or at least acknowledged. Some people here know of his house, and he assumes this woman does as well.

"King Daemon Targaryen." The king part is important. "Yours?"

He pulls her closer into his lap, his hand a possessive weight on her hip.